


Criminal Minds

by justffantasy



Series: Criminal Minds [1]
Category: Criminal Minds (US TV), IT (2017), IT - Stephen King
Genre: F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-11-07
Updated: 2019-02-01
Packaged: 2019-08-20 08:32:30
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 14,114
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16552421
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/justffantasy/pseuds/justffantasy
Summary: The Criminal Minds AU that I really needed in my life, so here it is.





	1. Chapter 1

Hey guys! It's been a hot minute, hasn't it? I've lost inspiration to write (and time) so I just ended up not doing it, but after looking back on my Scream fic and realizing how much I missed writing, I'm back with a new series. For fans of the Scream one, don't worry! I'm working on it, and the sequel WILL be put up, I'm just not sure when. I'm gonna finish it before I post it, so I can post consistently every day. And I'm working on it in all of my free time, but if it's as long as the first one it might take a little while. Sorry!  
Anyways, this first chapter obviously isn't starting the story yet, it's just kind of an introduction of what I'm gonna do here. So this book will kind of be like what I did with Scream, except also kind of different. Every chapter of this book will be one episode of Criminal Minds, and it will hopefully work out well and turn into a series (though maybe not so many of them- sorry, but 12- 13?- seasons is kind of a lot, y'know?). Anyways, a lot of the episodes will be like the show, except with characters from It instead. I'm gonna start out following the episodes closely, and then I'll incorporate some of my own chapters and slowly add in more and more of my own. The characters of It will take place of the characters in the show, and you'll most likely be able to tell who is who, but their relationships with others will most likely be different. I won't be posting every day like I did with Scream, and honestly it may take me a little while to figure out a steady posting schedule so bear with me, but I will try to make it at least once every two weeks, if not more. So yeah, I just wanted to kind of give you an explanation of where this story is gonna go, and I hope you enjoy!


	2. Extreme Aggressor

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey so I know I said I was gonna post the whole chapter in one, but it turned out to be like really long all in one and it look a while to write just this chapter so?? Yeah anyways here's part one, I'll have part two up at some point soon hopefully :)

**_Seattle, Washington_ **

 

_A young woman with brown hair tapped the keys on her keyboard, a small smile on her face as she examined the picture of the car sitting in front of her. It was a nice one, though she didn’t like the orange color much, but she wasn’t exactly picky. She turned her attention back to the conversation she was having with the person who was willing to sell her the car, watching as the typing icon appeared on their side of the screen before it popped up._

**_CARS4SALE says:_ **I’ll send you a picture of the car…

 **_CARS4SALE:_ **[message sent]

 **_CARS4SALE says:_ **New paint, new tires.. Not bad, huh?

_She stared at the message for a minute, mulling it over in her mind before smiling slightly to herself and typing a response into the chat._

**_HEATHER says:_ **Why so low on the price?

 **_CARS4SALE says:_ **Moving. Must sell ASAP. You up for a test drive?

_~*~_

 

_Thunder clapped in the distance, rain pouring down on Heather’s purple polka-dotted umbrella as she stood on the side of the road, waiting for the familiar orange car to drive up and meet her. They had agreed to meet by Seattle Coffee Works, a well-known cafe that Heather loved to go to after work. Finally, after what seemed like 10 minutes, the orange-red car pulled up in front of her smoothly. She marveled at it, a lot more impressed with the car in person, and she knew the grin on her face was huge as the owner of the car stepped out and jogged over, green hood pulled up to block the rain._

_“Wow!” Heather said cheerfully, looking thoroughly impressed. Then she reached out her hand, and shook the man’s hand firmly. She noticed that his grip was strong, sure, and for some reason that unsettled her just a little bit, but she brushed it aside with the thought that it didn’t matter- they would be with each other for only the drive and the purchase, and then he would be out of her life. Whatever threw her off about this man wouldn’t be important by tomorrow. “I’m Heather.”_

_“Nice to meet you,” he said, voice deep. She smiled and nodded at him, and then jogged to the other side of the car, getting in so that the test drive could begin. He got in on the passenger side, and they were off._

_Minutes later, they were driving smoothly down the road, and Heather couldn’t help but admire how well the engine ran, and the mileage, everything. Everything about this car seemed perfect for her. As she was thinking, the silence in the car was broken by the man, as he started talking about all of the perks of the car._

_“It’s a 2.4 liter 6-cylinder engine-” He started, and she finished for him automatically, beaming as she thought about herself owning this car._

_“With hitachi side draft carbs.” She said, and he gave a small little laugh._

_“That’s right. Do you maybe wanna take a look under the hood? We can pull over right over there.” He said, nodding to a spot down the road a little ways, and she nodded, pulling over._

_Heather got out of the car, and the man got out as well, popping the hood as Heather came over to examine it. As she did, he started talking again._

_“You know your Zs, I’m impressed.” He said, and she shrugged nonchalantly, but the smile stayed on her face. “Even so, you should get your mechanic to check it out just in case. Just to be safe, right?” She nodded, and he smiled. “How ‘bout I leave you my number? We can get it set up later.”_

_Nodding with agreement once again, she stepped into the car as he opened the door for her. Without her noticing, he clicked down the lock of the passenger’s side smoothly before shutting the door, unheard over the noise of the rain. He got in on the driver’s side, and they were off again._

_Minutes later, Heather sat staring out of the window, fingers tapping along to the radio that was playing softly in the background until she saw the turn come up. Then, she pointed it out, also nodding in the direction of the turn._

_“It’s just right up there.” She said, and he didn’t acknowledge it, or show any sign that he heard. She tilted her head, glancing over at him, but didn’t repeat herself, assuming he just preferred the silence. Soon, though, they zoomed past the right turn, and she made a small noise of surprise. “Oh! Uh, that was it, right- well, you can just pull over here and we can try and make a U-turn.”_

_Silence._

_She looked over at him again, and heart speeding up a little bit. All of the warmth that had been in his face was gone, and he stared straight at the road, never acknowledging that she even existed. “What are you doing?” She asked slowly, blue eyes focused on him timidly. When he still didn’t respond, she exhaled, closing her eyes and forcing herself to breathe. Then, she opened them again and made her voice strong._

_“Stop the car.” She demanded, but was met with silence once again. “Pull over, now.” Her voice was strong, steady, though her hands shook where she had them in her lap. He still didn’t respond, only gripped the steering wheel tighter, and it was like she was talking to a brick wall._

_Heart racing, she turned to look back out the window, trying to stop the tears of panic that were building in her eyes._ Breathe, _she thought to herself_ , and think. Calm down and think. _Her eyes flickered down to the lock on her car window, where it had been pushed all the way into the door. There was no way to pull it back up and unlock the car again- only the driver’s button could do that, and there was no way she could get to it. Desperately, she tried to get at the button with her long nails, before his knuckles met her cheek and all she saw was black._

 

_~*~_

 

**_Washington, D.C._ **

 

“What about Andrew? It’s Greek for ‘valiant’.” Hailey said, and Mike Hanlon shook his head, smiling to himself as he adjusted the green blanket on the baby crib.

“I think we should call him Sergio.” Mike said, and Hailey laughed.

“What? Please tell me you’re kidding.”

“Butch?” He suggested again, grinning, and Hailey rolled her eyes, smiling.

“How about Donald?” She offered.

“Hans,” He countered, and she threw a pillow at him, laughing.

“No! Okay, okay.” She said, catching it as he threw it back at her. “Okay. What about… Bill?” She looked up at him, and he stared back at her, one eyebrow raised.

“Not a chance.” He said, shaking his head with a smile as he sat down on the bed next her. The clock, flashing red on the bedside table, flashed **10:39 PM.**

She giggled, tapping the name on the book of baby names she had. “It’s Hebrew, look what it means. It’s perfect! Bill Hanlon.”

“No.” He said, shaking his head.

“Yes.”

“No.” He leaned forward and captured her lips in a kiss.

“Yes,” she mumbled against his lips, with another soft giggle. “Bill.”

“No!” He insisted, and she gave a quiet laugh, leaning into his chest. Across the hall, the fax machine started beeping, and Mike’s smile faded just slightly. Opting to ignore it, he smiled down at Hailey, wrapping her up in his arms.

 

~*~

 

“1940s. He put bombs in train stations and movie theaters.” Beverly Marsh said, swirling the drink around in the glass a little bit more before tipping her head back and downing it easily. The girls surrounding her watched, she noticed, as her head tipped back, and as soon as she looked down again their gazes shifted away immediately. She couldn’t help the smirk that appeared on her face, surveying the four girls that accompanied her as they thought. Then, after a minute, one perked up.

“The Mad Bomber, George… Metesky?” She said, and Bev nodded.

“Nice. Winner, sit. Losers, drink.” She said, and clinked glasses with all of them before they took their shots, all but one.

“Hold on,” she said, short dark hair getting pushed back behind her ear as she looked over at the red head. “George Metesky wasn’t a serial killer. None of his bombs ever killed anyone.”

“What, you think all we do is serial killers?” Bev asked, tilting her head as she looked over at the brunette. “Trust me, we cover the whole spectrum of psychos, ladies. We profiled the D.C. sniper, the Unabomber… we do terrorists, arsonists-”

“Supervisory agents trying to get trainees drunk?” A blonde cut in, and Bev laughed. It was cut short, however, by her phone ringing, and she slipped it out of her purse, checking who was calling.

 **BAU** flashed across the screen, and the dark haired one that had spoken before piped up. “The BAU?” Recognition dawned on her features. “Do you work with Agent Denbrough? Were you with him in Boston?”

There was a brief pause, and the good mood seemed to evaporate all together from the table as Bev said, “I was supposed to be.” Then, she turned, hitting the answer button her phone.

“Hello? Yeah, this is Marsh.”

 

~*~

 

“A-Anyone recognize these f-f-faces?” Bill Denbrough stood in front of the college students, the projector above him projecting polaroid of people that had been murdered. He sipped a cup of coffee- even after about three months of getting up at 8 for lectures, it still seemed way to early for him to be awake. The coffee cup in his hand was pretty much the only thing keeping him alive at the moment.

“Victims of the Footpath Killer.” Somebody in the back row piped up, and Bill nodded, looking behind him to see the victims as they appeared one by one on the screen.

“Th-that’s what Virginia newspapers are c-c-calling him. We refer to him as the unknown subject, or u-unsub. I told V-Vuh-Virginia P.D. that they’re looking for a white male in his 20s, who owns an american-made truck in d-disrepair. Works a m-menial job. And I told them that when th-th-they find him, don’t be surprised to hear him speak with a st-stutter. A severe one, even.” Bill stated, setting down his coffee cup and shoving his hands in his pockets as the lights came up and the projector shut off. A girl in the far left of the second row raised her hand, and Bill nodded, giving her permission to ask her question.

“Not to sound skeptical,” she started timidly, “but come on… a stutter?” The question that she didn’t completely finish voicing was obvious- _how could you possibly know that he has a stutter?_

“Think of w-where the murders o-occurred.” He started, thinking of how to explain this. “Hiking paths. Isolated. I-If I’m a killer who has to use an immediate a-application of overpowering f-f-force, even out in the middle of nowhere… I lack c-confidence. I can’t ch-charm them into my car like Ted Bundy d-did- I can’t because I’m a-ashamed of something.” His voice stayed strong, even throughout his stutter, and Bill looked over his students, watching them take in the information. He had gotten a good group this year- serious about what they were doing- and he was glad for that. After his break because of what had happened in Boston-

The door opening broke the small pause of silence the group had had, and Bill looked over at where the door was. Richie Tozier stood there, files in his hands and a special college visitor’s pass pinned onto his shirt. The curly-haired boy held up the file and tapped it, silent as to not interrupt the class further, and Bill grimly nodded at him and then turned to the class. “E-Excuse me for j-just a moment.”

Moments later they were out in the hall, walking fast as Richie began talking, pushing his glasses up on his nose. The file was there for Bill to read, but there was no reason for Richie to flip through it to double check his facts- he had a photographic memory and it was already in his mind as he started to speak.

“They’re calling him the Seattle Strangler, with 4 victims in 4 months. He keeps them alive seven days. The handle serves as a crank.” Richie thrust a picture into Bill’s hand and then shoved his hands in his pockets, and Bill studied the picture closely. A girl lay on a mound of trash, broken bottles and wood. She was fully clothed, and the area around her neck looked bruised. Her body was spread out, not in a fetal position, and she looked almost peaceful, like the killer had purposely put her that way.

“It allows him t-t-to control the rate of s-s-suffocation.” Bill acknowledge, frowning down at the picture and then handing it back over to Richie as they continued to walk down the long hallway.

“To prolong it?” Richie glanced over at Bill, and brown eyes met blue as Bill grimly shook his head.

“To enjoy it.” There was a brief pause, and Bill sighed. “Seattle’s hit a wall?”

Richie nodded. “Physical evidence is almost non-existent, and there are no tangible leads- they’re stuck.”

“And a-another girl is m-missing,” Bill guessed, and without turning to look at Richie for confirmation, he pushed open the door to his office and slipped inside. Richie followed close behind, and watched as Bill emailed the students that the rest of class was canceled because an emergency came up.

Ten minutes later, Mike Hanlon and Beverly Marsh were coming into the office, both looking grim but not surprised. Without looking away from what he was doing, Bill said, “I looked the c-c-case file over, I’ll get some th-thoughts to you ASAP.”

“You’re gonna be in Seattle with us ASAP.” Mike corrected, and Bill looked up, surprise on his face.

“23 year old Heather Woodland.” Bev said, offering Bill a picture of a young brunette girl. “Before she left for lunch, she downloaded an email with a time-delayed virus attached. It wiped the hard-drive and left this on the screen.” Now she handed him a picture of the computer, with big bold letters splayed across it.

**_FOR HEAVENS SAKE CATCH ME BEFORE I KILL MORE I CANNOT CONTROL MYSELF FOR HEAVENS SAKE CATCH ME BEFORE I KILL MORE I CANNOT CONTROL MYSELF FOR HEAVENS SAKE CATCH ME BEFORE I KILL MORE I CANNOT CONTROL MYSELF FOR HEAVENS SAKE…._ **

Bill exhaled, turning and flipping open one of the many books that he had. “For heaven’s sake, catch me before I kill more, I cannot control myself.” He repeated slowly, and stopped on a page about William Heirens, the Lipstick Killer. There was a picture of one of his crime scenes in the book, with the same saying splayed across the wall, written in lipstick. Now it was Mike’s turn to speak.

“He never keeps them for more than seven days, which means we have less than 36 hours to find her.” Mike said. “They want you back in the saddle, Bill. You ready?”

“Looks like medical leave’s over, Boss.” Richie said softly.

“They sure th-they want m-muh-me?” Bill asked quietly, and Mike gave a small smile, along with a nod.

“The order came straight from the director.” Mike confirmed, and Bill turned away, looking back down at the picture of the computer screen.

“Th-then we’d better get st-started.”

 

~*~

 

_“The belief in a supernatural source of evil is not necessary. Men alone are quite capable of every wickedness.” -Joseph Conrad_

 

~*~

 

Bill stared out the window of the plane as it flew through the night sky, stretching a rubber band between his fingers absentmindedly. Mike sat next to him, with Bev standing behind them to peer over their shoulder and Richie sitting across from them. The plane was set up with two chairs facing two others, with a table in between (that was where they were sitting) and a couch stretching out behind that, and then more chairs and tables set up on the other side of the plane. Richie was talking to the rest of the team, and Bill forced himself to tune back into the conversation, leaving his other thoughts behind.

“His first victim was 26 year old Melissa Kirsh. Stab wounds, strangulation-”

“Wait, hold on. He stabbed her, and then strangled her to finish her off?” Bev clarified, and Bill shook his head.

“O-Other way around. Why do you th-think he started using the belt with the s-s-second murder?”

Immediately, Richie answered, having to force himself to slow down so he didn’t stumble over his words and so that the others could understand him. “Strangling someone with your bare hands is not as easy as one would believe. He tried, and probably found that it took too long for his liking, and…”

“He stabbed her instead.” Bev finished, nodding slowly and frowning.

“And then realized it was gonna take hours to clean up the blood. Next time, he’s got a method- the belt.” Mike added, and Bill nodded, inhaling and then exhaling slowly.

“H-He’s learning. Perfecting his m-muh-method.” There was a brief pause in the conversation, and Bill set the rubberband down on the table slowly, looking up and meeting Richie’s eyes. “Becoming a b-better killer.”

 

~*~

 

_Heather sobbed, hands reaching up to touch the silver duct-tape that covered her eyes. She pulled at it, and when it didn’t give she cried harder, nose running and hair a mess. She was in a mesh cage, she could feel it, though no matter how hard she tried to shake it or break through it it didn’t move. She reached for the tape again, and then a door slammed somewhere in front of her, causing her to cry out and jump._

_A deep voice came from what she guessed was the front of the cage. “What did I tell you about the tape?” He snarled at her, and she flinched backwards, pressing herself into the back part of the cage and crying harder._

_“I’m sorry! I’m sorry, please!”_

 

_~*~_

 

“You know, he never stands with his back to a window.” Bev mumbled to Richie under her breath, watching as Bill walked ahead of them down the halls of the police station in Seattle, Washington. “Once, I was standing between him and a doorway, and he asked me to move.”

“It’s called hyper vigilance.” Richie said matter-of-factly, also watching as Bill turned the corner and vanished from sight. “It’s not uncommon in people with post-traumatic stress disorder.”

“Just how much disorder are we talking about?” Bev said with a frown, and Mike came up behind them, voice gentle.

“Bev, give him some time. It’s only been 6 months, everything’s fine.” Bev gave a small nod, and the three of them followed Bill down the hall.

“This is special agent Denbrough,” Mike said as he entered the office behind Bill, introducing the team to the Seattle police. “And this is special agent Marsh, our expert on obsessional crimes.” He said, nodded to Beverly, who gave a little wave to everyone there. “Over here is special agent Tozier-”

“Dr. Tozier,” Bill corrected, flipping through a case file.

“Dr. Tozier,” Mike amended with a quiet chuckle, “our expert on, well… everything. And I’m special agent Hanlon.”

“He’s willing t-t-o travel with the b-body.” Bill said, studying the map with the different points on them.

“Which means that he has a vehicle capable of concealing one.” Mike pulled out a chair, sitting down.

“1 in 7.4 drivers in Seattle owns an SUV.” Richie contributed, and Bill hummed to himself as he thought.

“Explorer with tinted windows.” Bev said, looking over at the board that said **MELISSA KIRSCH** on it.

“Explorers rate higher with women.” Richie murmured.”

“But how do we know it’s his car?” Bev said, tilting her head. “Ted Bundy drove a VW bug.”

“What about a Jeep Cherokee?” Mike cut in, and Richie nodded.

“That’s more plausible- Jeeps are more masculine.”

“A-And we all know about how an unsub f-feels about asserting his m-muh-masculinity.” Bill added, turning to look back at the group of police officers and special agents in front of him.

“When did the bureau become involved in the case?” Mike asked, and someone spoke up.

“After the fourth body. He dumped that one out of state.”

“On purpose.” Mike said, almost to himself, but Richie continued that thought.

“Knowledge of law enforcement. That does suggest a criminal record.”

“Or that he watches television. May I?” Bev reached out, and the police officer obediently handed her the case file that he was holding.

“Do you want to see the suspect list?”

“No,” Mike said almost immediately. “Not until after we come up with a profile- we don’t want it to affect us in any way- it keeps our perspective unbiased.”

“Wh-when do we sit down w-with your task force?” Bill asked, seeming distant.

“4:00.” A police officer answered, and Bev looked up skeptically.

“An accurate profile, by 4:00 today? I don’t think-”

“I-It won’t be a problem.” Bill muttered. “Let’s start at the scene of the last murder.”

 

~*~

 

Bev watched as Bill stepped over trash and broken bottles, examining the crime scene ahead of them. They were underneath an overpass, the sound of cars zooming by overhead, and crime scene tape wrapped around the columns to show that a body had been found here. It smelled disgusting, like urine, drugs, and death, but after all of the other crime scenes she had been at Bev was quite used to it, hardly even flinching as she followed Bill along with a Seattle P.D. cop through the scene. Bill stopped ahead of them, where the body had been found, and Bev paused for a moment to watch him work. No matter how many times she saw it, she didn’t think it would ever get old.

“So that’s Bill Denbrough?” The cop murmured to her, and she broke her gaze away from Bill to glance over at him. Bill couldn’t hear them from where he was, which she was grateful for- she didn’t think he would like be talked about very much. “ _The_ Bill Denbrough? The one that caught that guy, Adrian Baal, in Boston?”

“Yup, that’s him.” Bev said, biting her lip as she watched Bill squat down, studying the ground closely as if looking for signs of a struggle, to see if the victim was still alive before coming here or if she had been killed somewhere else and then brought here. “But remember, catching him cost us six agents,” she reminded the cop, and without waiting for a response walked forward to join Bill where he was standing.

“22 year old Anne Cushing was found here. Nails clipped, just like the others.” She said, squinting as the bright sunlight shone in and blinded her. “He wants them to fight back-”

“B-But not enough to hurt him.” Bill finished, frowning as he handed back the picture of the young woman he had been holding. “He left th-the belt around her n-neck. He’s probably in his early 20s.” He concluded, and Bev raised an eyebrow.

“What’s your reasoning?”

“Youthful arrogance.” Bill shoved his hands in his pockets, suddenly feeling cold although the sun was shining brightly down on them.

“He clothed the body before dumping it.” Bev stated, though she was sure Bill already knew that.

“A s-sign of remorse.”

“But it’s not consistent- I mean, look at where we are. There’s trash everywhere, it’s dirty, disgusting. I think that makes his opinion of women pretty clear.”

“They’re d-d-disposable.” Bill agreed, and Bev frowned, trying to think.

“Why take the time to dress her, and then dump her here?” Bev asked, and slowly, Bill turned towards her again, looking up and meeting her gaze. Without speaking, he seemed to be saying the same thing that she was thinking.

_I don’t know._

 

~*~

 

Richie jumped just slightly as the golden retriever barked at him, pressing his lips together in a firm line as Joe Woodland, Heather’s husband, came to grab the dog and pull her away.

“Sandy, that’s enough.” Mr. Woodland hissed to the dog, and Mike smiled slightly, looking amused.

“It’s okay. It’s what we called the Tozier Effect. Happens with small children, too. I’m agent Hanlon, and this is Dr. Tozier.” Mike said, introducing himself and Richie.

“You look too young to have gone to medical school,” Mr. Woodland said to Richie skeptically, and Richie just shrugged.

“I have 3 Ph.D.s.” Richie said simply, and Mike watched the shock register on Mr. Woodland’s face.

“Are you like, a genius or something?”

“I don’t believe that intelligence can be accurately quantified- but I do have an IQ of 187, an eidetic memory and can read up to 20,000 words per minute.” Richie said, like it was no big deal and something that everyone could do if they really wanted. He pushed his glasses further up on his nose and looked up, and after a pause of silence and realizing that Mr. Woodland didn’t really register what he had said, Richie sighed. “Yes, I’m a genius.”

The dog barked again, breaking the silence, and Mike looked down, petting Sandy on the head gently. “You sure do get a lot of attention, don’t you?”

“Yeah, Heather loves this dog. Usually she’s fine, but… now she won’t eat. It’s like she can see that something’s wrong.”

“Not see, smell.” Richie corrected, dropping down into a squat so that he could be face-to-face with the dog and petting her soft ears. “Our apocrine sweat gland releases secretions in response to emotional stress,” he finished, not bothering to make sure that Mr. Woodland really understood what he said.

“She’s worried because you are,” Mike translated, and Mr. Woodland nodded in understanding. Richie got up, making his way across the room with sudden purpose as he grabbed some car magazines and flipped through them.

“Joe, does your wife drive a Datsun Z?” Richie asked, continuing to flip through the magazine as he awaited an answer.

“Uh, no. But she’s in the market for one, how’d you know?” He asked, tilting his head in confusion. Richie simply held up the magazine as a response before setting it down, as Sandy started barking loudly again. Joe frowned, pulling her away and out the door. “Come on, Sandy.”

As soon as he was out the door, Richie turned to look at Mike. “There’s an immediately relationship established between a buyer and seller, an immediate bond of trust. If I wanna get a young woman into my car…”

“Offer her a test drive.” Mike finished.

 

~*~

 

“Okay, but what about how on one hand we have paranoid psychosis, but the autopsy protocol says what?” Bev asked, pacing across the room and throwing up a stress ball before catching it again, over and over repeatedly. All four of them were back at the police department, in one of the offices, trying to think out loud and gather their thoughts. Bill stood on the other side of the room, staring at one of the bulletin boards with Heather’s files splayed out across it. Richie sat in one of the spinny chairs, cross-legged and spinning around in circles every so often out of boredom and also just needing something else to do. He couldn’t sit still for very long. Mike sat flipped through the cases, for what seemed like the third time in the past 10 minutes.

“Adhesive residue shows he put layer after layer of duct tape over his victims eyes.” Richie quoted from the report.

“He knows that he wants to kill him, but he still covers their eyes.” Bev stated, humming softly. “He doesn’t want them looking at him. But then he goes and dumps the bodies right out in the open, with the murder weapon nearby…”

“Not the M.O. of a paranoid convinced he’s being watched or surveilled.” Richie agreed, pushing off the desk once more and spinning in circles again.

“Paranoid psychosis, but behavior that’s not paranoid.” Bev said, frustration evident in her voice.

“Maybe he’s schizophrenic,” Mike offered, and Bev made another frustrated sound, setting down the stress ball.

“Maybe we just don’t have enough for a complete profile.” She said in exasperation. “I knew we wouldn’t have enough time-”

“We have enough to narrow our list of suspects,” Mike argued.

“We have less than 12 hours to find this woman, and we don’t know exactly what- Mike, we don’t know anything!” Bev said, and Bill cut off the discussion with three simple words.

“All r-right, enough.” He said, and everybody went silent, looking over at him in surprise. “L-Let’s tell th-them we’re ready.” Without waiting for anybody else’s response, he ducked through the doors, pushing outside and into the main section of the department. Bev spluttered, blinking in confusion.

“We’re _ready?”_ When no one else seemed to share her concern, she turned to Richie, looking indignant. “We’ve got a woman who’s only got a few hours left to live, an incomplete profile, and a unit chief on the verge of a nervous breakdown-”

“Th-They don’t call them nervous b-breakdowns anymore.” Bill said simply as he stepped back into the room, grabbing some pictures that he had forgotten to take with him and then stepping back out again. Mike couldn’t help the small smile of amusement that appeared on his face at Bev’s sigh.

“They’re called major depressive episodes,” Richie contributed, and Bev shook her head, looking just slightly amused even with all of the stress that was racing through her right now.

“I know, Rich.”

 

~*~

 

“The unidentified subject is white and in his late 20s.” Bill started, allowing himself to rattle off the facts of the case that he gained from the evidence, the profile that he had been building in his mind. “He’s s-someone you wouldn’t n-n-notice at first- someone who would b-blend in to any crowd. The violent nature of the crime s-s-suggests someone with a previous record- p-petty crimes, possibly auto theft. We’ve c-classified him as an organized killer, careful. Psychopathic as opp-posed to psychotic. He f-follows the news, has good hygiene- h-he’s smart. A-And because of th-that, the only physical e-evidence you’ll find is what he w-wants you to find.”

“He’s m-m-mobile, and has a car in good c-condition. Our guess is a Jeep Cherokee with t-tinted windows. The murders have all i-i-involved rapes, but rape without p-penetration is a form of p-piquerism, and that tells us he’s s-sexually inadequate. Psychiatric evaluations w-will show a history of paranoia stemming from a ch-childhood trauma- death of a parent, or close family member. N-now, he feels persecuted and watched. M-Murder- it gives him a sense of power.”

“O-Organized killers have a f-fascination with law enforcement. Th-they will inject themselves into the investigation. Th-they will even come forward as w-witnesses, to see just how m-much the police really know- it makes them feel powerful, and in control. Which is why I also think-” Bill paused, looking down for a minute before back up at the surrounding police officers, “-in fact, I know- that you have already interviewed him.”

 

~*~

 

Stanley Uris knocked on the front door of an old two story house, the lights on and drawn shut tight. The air was chilly, nipping at his nose and cheeks, and shivering slightly he shoved his hands in his coat pockets and waited for an answer. After a minute, the white door opened, revealing an old woman that looked to be in her mid 80s.

“I’m sorry to bother you,” he said politely, giving a small smile that looked apologetic. “I’m house-sitting down the street, and when I got back the door was wide open, and the lights weren’t working.” Stan made sure to make himself seem as small as possible, fidgeting and making himself seem younger than he really was. “I feel stupid asking this, but is there someone who might be able to take a look instead with me?” Once again, he flashed another apologetic smile, and the old woman stared at him for a quick moment before turning and yelling up the stairs.

“Richard! Richard, get down here!”

Minutes later, a young boy with straight brown hair and scruff was walking down the street with Stan, the night cool and silent. They walked quickly towards the green house that stood on the corner of the street, the one that Stan said he was house-sitting, and the boy, Richard, turned to look at him. Stan was probably a good inch or two shorter than him, which was kind of a difficult feat, and Richard looked like he didn’t really see why Stan needed someone to go with him.

“Are you sure you locked it?” Richard asked, and Stan nodded, fidgeting and rubbing his nose to warm it up a little from the cold.

Stan reached out, using the keys to unlock the door, and slowly Richard pushed it open, shining his flashlight inside. Richard was wiry, lean, and slipped inside with ease, like a cat. Stan followed him inside, forcing himself to look timid and nervous and they both looked around.

“Hello?” Richard called, and as soon as he turned the corner, shouts came from all over the room as many FBI agents stepped out, training their guns on him. Stan grabbed Richard’s hands before he could move, forcing them behind his back and shoving him down to the ground.

“Richard Slessman, FBI.” Stan said, voice strong as he held Richard down on the ground with unexpected strength and started cuffing him. “You’re under arrest for the murder of…”

 

~*~

 

_“All is riddle, and the key to a riddle… is another riddle.” -Emerson_


	3. Charlie, Charlie

“There’s no sign of the girl here.” Richie murmured, pushing his glasses further up on his nose and surveying the old house. As soon as you walked through the front door, there were stairs that led up to a couple of bedrooms and then more stairs that led up to the attic. The hallway on the first floor led to a kitchen, with several objects scattered around that said things like “Good Boys Get Cookies”. Overall, it definitely looked like somewhere a grandmother would live, and it looked well-loved. He turned away from it, looking back over at Bill. “We can arrest him with probably cause, but we can’t hold him.”

Bill frowned, turning and nodding in the direction of the old woman that sat at the table in the kitchen. Behind her stood a younger brunette, who held a baby in her arms and was cooing at it softly, looking stressed and tired. “Is th-that the mother?”

“Grandmother.” Stan said as he turned the corner, joining the conversation with ease. Bill’s gaze turned away from the mother, meeting Stan’s. “His mother died in a fire when he was 13,” Stan finished, and after a moment he broke the stare, looking down the hallway and at the handcuffed, scrawny boy that sat at the table, watching and analyzing them. 

“Probably n-n-not the only fire in his life,” Bill commented, also turning away from Stan.

“Before his Son of Sam murders, David Berkowitz set a multitude of fires,” Richie agreed, following as Bill and Stan both slipped into the dining room.

“How much is a multitude?” Bev asked as she stepped into the room, shoving her hands into her pockets and leaning against the wall.

“According to his diary, about 1,400 and-” 

“88.” Stan finished for Richie, and Richie nodded. 

“Luring him out was y-your idea, right?” Bill asked, stopping to look at Stan again. “Uris?”

“Just call me Stan.” He said simply, running his fingers through his curly hair. “And I don’t like to send a SWAT team into a house full of children.”

Bill tilted his head up, studying Stan for a moment. “I’ve b-been told your background is in sex offender cases. Wh-what can you tell us?”

Not wanting to disappoint, Stan piped up immediately. “The last four murders show that he’s an anger-excitation rapist. He’ll keep a victim for a couple of days, and probably records or videotapes them…”

“So he can relive the fantasy.” Bill hummed, finally turning his gaze away from Stan. “You okay with H-Hanlon being in on the interview?”

“I’d prefer him to lead, actually.” Stan said, and Bill nodded.

“But hold on. Slessman’s d-d-done time, and he kn-knows the process. And m-muh-mostly likely, all you’ll get is a demand for a-a lawyer.” Bill offered Stan a small smile, but barely one at that, and then pulled away, ducking out of the room and calling down the hallway. “Mike! Let’s check the garage.”

“Next time, show a little leg,” Bev joked, and turned, starting up the stairs. Stan rolled his eyes, but couldn’t help the smile that tugged at his lips. “Marsh, the only time you’re gonna see any leg from me is when I kick your ass.”

“I still teach hand-to-hand at Quantico if you need a little brush-up training.” She said, and he shook his head with a smile, tucking a piece of curly hair behind his ear. 

“Seriously. I want that opening at the BAU. Any advice?”

Bev thought for a moment, and then gave him a soft, assuring smile. “Just trust your instincts, and you’ll do just fine.”

 

~*~

 

Mike pulled up the garage door, and frowned into the darkness. A Jeep Cherokee sat there, empty and silent. “Well, we got the Jeep right.”

“And e-everything else wrong,” Bill muttered grimly. “The b-b-body had defensive wounds, but Richard doesn’t have a muh-mark on him. We’re m-muh-missing something.”

 

~*~

 

Bev walked into Richard’s room slowly, observing everything silently. She pushed her hands through her tangled red hair and pulled it up into a rough ponytail, scraps falling out and around her face. Her blue eyes reflected curiosity and confusion, running her fingers over the floral blue wallpaper and then stopped, tapping it lightly with her fingers.

“Something isn’t right here,” she murmured, more to herself than to anyone else. “This is a boy’s room, not a man’s.”  She looked around the room, barely paying attention as the local P.D. officers worked at Richard’s computer. After a minute, one pulled out a blue sticky note from inside the right hand drawer, smiling triumphantly. 

“Login password.” He said, typing it in without any hesitation. Bev’s head snapped over, and she reached out, like she was gonna snatch the post it right out of his head. 

“Wait, don’t-” she started, but the officer hit the enter button before she could finish, and she watched in defeat as the screen flickered and then turned black almost immediately.

“It’s not turning back on,” the officer said in confusion, and Bev sighed tiredly, turning away from them. 

“Yeah, and it won’t. Because that was a false password.” She stopped herself before adding a  _ ‘dumbass’ _ at the end of it.

 

~*~

 

Stan jogged up the attic stairs, coming to a stop as he saw Bill and Richie standing around a table. On top of it was a board, white and black round stones on it. Tilting his head, he studied it curiously before looking up at the two. “What is it?”

“It’s a game. In China it’s called “Wei-Chi”- here, it’s “Go”,” Richie said, pushing up his glasses before shoving his hands into his pockets. “It’s considered to be the most difficult board game ever created.”

“Chairman Mao required his g-generals to learn it.” Bill added quietly, leaning back a bookcase carefully. 

“It also looks like he’s playing himself,” Richie said, and already anticipating the next question, he sat down even as Stan began to talk.

“How can you tell?”

Without responding, Richie took to fingers and pressed them to the side of the board. With a gentle push, it spun slowly. “This actually might be an advantage.” Richie spoke after a minute, the game board slowly coming to a complete stop. “The game is supposed to be very psychologically revealing. There are profiles for every player- the point counter, aggressor, finesser…”

“And what kind is he?” Bill asked, looking up to Richie, but looking like he could already guess the answer.

“Extreme Aggressor.” 

 

~*~

 

Bev held down the ON button for about a minute, and soon the screen of the computer flickered to life. Instead of the regular open screen that had been on the computer previously, a different one appeared. On it, it said  **DEADBOLT DEFENSE** at the top, and in big bold letters the number 6 appeared, along with a box to type in the password. Stan stepped into the room, walking around so that he was standing on the left side of Bev, able to see the computer. “What’s the number stand for?”

“The amount of tries left for the password.” Bev responded, thinking quietly. “Get too many wrong, and the program wipes the hard drive.”

“There could be an email or journal or something in there that can lead to Heather- do you think you can get in?” Stan asked worriedly.

“In six tries?” Bev responded skeptically, and a voice made them both turn as Bill and Richie joined them.

“Try again. Fail again. Fail better.” Bill said simply, and Stan noticed Richie’s small smile even as he looked down to hide it, hair falling into his face just slightly. 

“Samuel Beckett.” Richie mumbled, and Bill gave him a fond smile. Bev rolled her eyes.

“Try not. Do or do not.” She raised her eyebrows at him and turned away, and Bill frowned. Richie’s smile was still there as he clarified who it was for Bill.

“Yoda.”

Giving a small laugh and shaking his head, Bill turned away, and the smile faltered as he caught sight of a book on Richard’s bookshelf. He pulled it out slowly, and flipped it over so that he could see the cover.

_ Journal of Applied Criminal Psychology _

Flipping through it, he stopped as he came across a page that was bookmarked with a piece of newspaper. Slowly, he pulled out the ripped out page, and his smile vanished completely as he read the all-too familiar headline.  **BLAST KILLS SIX.** His own face looked grimly back at him, and Bill ran a finger across it slowly. The picture was black and white, and a little overexposed. Though you couldn’t tell from the angle, Bill knew that tears were streaming down his face in the picture, and shock radiated from him. He could remember that moment clearly, though he really wished he couldn’t.

“I w-w-wanna t-talk to him.” Bill stated, and Richie looked over, gaze flicking down to the paper in Bill’s hands for a brief second before he nodded slowly.

 

~*~

 

Richard Slessmen sat glumly at the rusted kitchen table, boredly staring off into space until a loud thump jarred him from his tuned out state. A familiar book sat in front of him, and a slow smile spread across his face as he read the title.

_ Journal of Applied Criminal Psychology _

“You read my paper.” Bill said, voice strong and stable and showing no signs of any of the memories that he had gone through less than five minutes ago. “L-Learn anything?”

“Heirans said a man living inside his head was the one that committed the murders.” Slessmen said matter-of-factly, tilting his head and studying Bill. He looked unamused, cold, and calculating, and like he couldn’t care less what happened to him now. “You said he was lying.” He stared at Bill, as if he was challenging him to argue. Instead, Bill sat silently, listening. “You said there’d never been an actual case of multiple personalities.”

“You h-have an academic interest in d-d-disassociative identity disorder, or just p-planning your defense?” Slessmen just laughed instead of responding, a small chuckle, and then went silent, sitting back in his chair and just watching Bill.

Bill pulled out the slip of newspaper from the middle of the book, unfolding it and revealing the whole page before sliding it toward Richard. “You a f-fan of Adrien Baal’s work?”

Now Richard did look amused, blinking slowly and letting another smile appear on his face. This one was more soft, quiet, and suddenly Bill could see how Richard would be seen as trustworthy and harmless. He fought the urge to push the chair back and away from him, filled with disgust. Richard stayed silent for just a moment, head shaking slowly before he spoke. “No.” He paused, gaze on the paper, before slowly looking up, blue eyes focusing on Bill. “I’m a fan of yours.” There was another pause, this one longer than the last. Bill listened, and as much as he didn’t like it, Bill knew that Slessmen knew that Bill was listening with rapt attention. “You know, they never give you the real facts about CPR.” Slessmen leaned forward, eyes focused on Bill with an intensity Bill had rarely seen before. His voice was barely a whisper, and to hear him, Bill had to lean forward just a little bit as well. 

“They never tell you that, outside of a hospital, it’s only effective 7% of the time.” Slessmen continued, gaze never leaving Bill’s. Unease filled him, as well as dread, but Bill didn’t look away from him. He made sure that his gaze was steely and unimpressed, but he had a feeling that Richard didn’t fall for it in the slightest. “Your friend had a 93% certainty of dying… but you kept trying. Even after you’d broken his ribs- even after his blood was all over your hands.” The last sentence finished at a whisper, and Bill didn’t speak for a second, gathering his thoughts and pushing the familiar, panicky feeling that filled his chest to the back of his mind. Instead of responding to what Richard had just said, he sat up a little straighter, but refused to sit back and give Richard the satisfaction of knowing how his words had gotten to Bill.

“Why d-don’t you t-tell us where Heather Woodland is?” Bill said calmly, but Richard didn’t seem the slightest bit disappointed, like he knew just how much he had bothered Bill even if Bill hadn’t let on. Richard leaned back, relaxing in his chair and tilting his chin up as he looked at Bill. Smiling almost smugly, he waited a second before he responded. 

“Woodland…” he said, pretending to be thinking, putting on a show for Bill even though he knew absolutely no one bought it. His teeth gleamed in the dirty lighting of the kitchen as he said in falsely sweet way, “Isn’t she the girl that went missing a couple days ago?” 

Once again, another long pause stretched between them before Bill got to his feet, pushing in his chair. “Get him out of here.”

 

~*~

 

Bill sat on the steps to the porch, staring off into the distance and lost in his thoughts. The headline words echoed in his mind, and he could pretty much recite the article word by word he’d read it so much.  _ Maybe I really wasn’t ready to come back.  _ He shut his eyes, rubbing his temples slowly and trying to get the throbbing in his head to go away. The red and blue police lights shone on the house, and the sirens were still going off, quite loudly, too. Everything just seemed like too much, and he let out a frustrated sigh, murmuring softly under his breath.  _ “He th-thrusts his fists against the p-p-p-post and st-still insists he sees the gh-ghost. He th-thrust-”  _ a hand on his back made his jump, and his head snapped up, blue eyes widening in surprise.

Stan removed his hand immediately, looking startled. “Oh, sorry. I uh, didn’t mean to scare you. Are you… okay?”

“Yeah,” Bill mumbled, blinking and watching the blue and red lights flickering across Stan’s face before turning away and shaking his head to get rid of his thoughts. “H-he said “Isn’t she th-that girl”.” He stated, changing the subject and letting his thoughts wander back to the case. “If he’d already k-killed her, he would have s-said…”

“Wasn’t she the girl.” Stan finished, nodding slowly as Bill turned to face him again.

“She’s alive. W-We don’t know for how long.”

“Is it true, what he said about CPR?” Stan asked after a brief second, tilting his head as he studied Bill for a reaction. Whatever he was looking for, Bill made sure he didn’t find it- his gaze was calm, focused, and Stan could see that Bill’s walls were up. “I didn’t know-”

“If you want st-statistics on CPR, ask R-Richie.” Bill cut him off, and made to move past him. Stan reached out, catching his arm with a hand, and reluctantly Bill turned to look at him again. 

“I wanna know if you’re okay.” Stan said softly, and Bill shook his head just slightly.

“I’m f-fine.”

“Are you?” 

“Th-think I can’t do the j-job?” Bill asked, and though he didn’t mean it to, his voice had a more than slightly defensive tone to it. However, Stan’s gaze was soft, curious, and Bill searched his gaze, trying to figure him out.

“I think that you can’t be two different people at once.” Stan murmured back to him, and Bill stilled for a second, thinking. Then, slowly, a smile crept onto his face, and Stan blinked at the sudden change. “What?”

“Conflicts in th-the profile.” Bill smiled wide, allowing his thoughts from before and the ones that Stan had brought up to be washed away and replaced with the case once again. After a second, realization lit Stan’s eyes, and he nodded. “T-two different profiles…” Bill started.

“And two different people.” Stan finished. “There’s a second killer.”

 

~*~

 

“A second unsub?” Bev questioned as she, Bill, Richie, Mike and Stan jogged down the stairs of the police department. 

“I-It’s not unusual.” Bill kept his eyes on the ground as they walked, thinking. “Remember Lawrence Bittaker and Roy Norris?”

“1979. They outfitted a van to rape and murder girls in California.” Bev said easily, nodding. 

“So we’re looking for the same relationship?” Mike asked, brown eyes focused on Bill. Or rather, Bill’s back, because the younger boy was walking so fast that it was hard for him to keep up. 

“N-Not quite,” Bill contradicted, and he looked up, glancing behind him at Mike. As if reading Mike’s mind, he slowed his pace, and the others followed suit. “Slessman’s smart, b-but he’s submissive.”

“So unsub 2 is the dominant.” Stan murmured, and Bill nodded.

“Authoritative, arrogant…”

“And probably not as smart as Slessman.” Mike added, and Bill smiled, approval in his gaze. For a moment he allowed himself to think of his team, and pride filled his head. This team was like a family to him, and after so long not having them around, he had to admit it did feel good to get back into the pace of things. 

“H-He’s like…” Bill tried to come up with an example, but his thoughts had scattered, and he gave a small frown. Instead, Stan spoke up.

“Like a school bully.” He stated, eyes on Bill in case he messed up or got it wrong. “He’ll protect Richard, make him feel like he owes him. This guy showed him how to take the anger that he was fantasizing about up in that attic and get it out.” 

“H-He helped him take th-that first step.” Bill agreed. 

“I think we should interview him.” Mike cut in. “Use this as leverage.”

“N-no.” Bill shook his head, turning to face all of them. “We need some k-k-kind of leverage. A name.”

“From the suspect list?” Bev asked, and again Bill shook his head. 

“Th-that’ll take too long. There’s g-g-gotta be a faster way.” At this, Mike spoke up, gaze lighting up as he realized just what they were looking for- or rather, who.

“There is.”

 

~*~

 

“Mrs. Slessman, I don’t think we’ve got the right guy.” Mike said to the old woman sitting in front of him, handing her a mug of tea and sitting down across from her. “I think who we’re looking for might know your grandson, or even be a friend of his.”

Her hands shook, glasses glinting in the light as she shook her head slowly. “Richard never had many friends…”

“You sure?” Mike pushed gently, bringing a kind smile onto his face. “There’s gotta be someone.”

 

~*~

 

“You’ve reached Ben Hanscom in the FBI’s office of supreme genius, what can I do for you?” Ben said into the phone, typing on the computer sitting in front of him- or one of them. At least a dozen screens sat in front of him, the lights dim around him so that he was only surrounded by the screen’s glow. Around him sat a dozen little figures, and on the wall there was a huge FBI symbol, half covered up by band posters, and his spinny chair had stuffing coming out from some of the corners it was old.

“Hey, it’s Bev.” The redhead said into the phone, and Ben couldn’t help the small smile that appeared on his face. “I need you to work me some magic here.” Ben hummed in reply, so Bev continued. “I got a program called deadbolt defense and a girl with only a couple hours to live. Whatcha got for me?”

“That deadbolt is the number one hack resistant program out there,” he said grimly. “You’re gonna have to get in this guy’s head to find the password.” 

“I thought I was talking to the office of supreme genius,” Bev complained, and Ben gave a laugh. 

“Sorry, sweetheart, you’ve been rerouted to the office of two friggin’ bad.” He said, and clicked off.

 

~*~   
  


“There was…” Mrs. Slessman’s fingers gripped the cup tighter as she thought, resting the bottom of it on her knee. “There was this one young man.” She said finally. “I think his name was… Charlie?” The conversation could be heard through the microphone that Mike was wearing, and back in the local P.D. computer room Bill stopped pacing.

“C-Cross reference ‘Ch-Charlie’ with the list of possible unsubs.” Bill murmured, and Stan typed it into the computer obediently. 

“There. He’s probably Charles Linder- Slessman’s cellmate. He received a dishonorable discharge from the military- he’s bigger, tougher, and probably could have protected Richard in prison.”

“Wh-where were they incarcerated?” Bill asked, and Stan scrolled down, gaze flicking back and forth across the monitor.

“Cascadia. Less than a mile from here.” 

“L-Let’s go.”

 

~*~

 

Bev dug through the bathroom, looking through them before pulling out an orange one with a white top. “My name is Richard Slessman, and I have trouble sleeping.” She raised her eyebrows, placing the pills back in their spot and heading to the bedroom once again. She laid down on the bed, folding her hands neatly over her stomach and shutting her eyes. “Okay. So what do I do if I can’t sleep?” 

After a second of laying there, she looked behind her, at the shelves that doubled as the top of the bed. Inside them confirmed her suspicions as she pulled out an old CD player and a ton of old CDs. She rolled off the bed and to her feet, walking over to a huge collection of CDs that sat on a spin rack. “Guys, a little help?” She called into the hallways, and immediately two of the P.D. officers came in, looking at her quizzically. “We’re gonna go through all of these, alright? Look for scratches, wear and tear, whatever, I just need to know which of these he plays the most.”

 

~*~

 

“We got an address for Linder?” Mike asked as he passed Richie, and Richie shook his head. 

“It’s coming right now.” There was a brief pause, and then Richie couldn’t help himself, worry taking over completely. “Does… does senior management want a field assessment on Bill?”

“Don’t worry about it,” Mike said quietly. “I’m handling it.”

“A-Are they nervous about him being in charge?” For once, Richie was completely serious, brown eyes only reflecting concern. “Because-”

“Aren’t you on your way back to Slessman’s house to help Bev?” Mike prodded gently, and turned away, continuing to walk. Before he could get too far, Richie stopped him with another question.

“Do you know why he always introduces me as Dr. Tozier?” Richie called, and Mike stopped, turning to look at Richie again. Richie was the youngest, and with the way he dressed and the curly hair, as well as the coke bottle glasses, he definitely looked like it too. Mike didn’t even really have to consider it before he responded.

“Because he knows that people see you as a kid, Rich. And he wants them to respect you.” Richie looked down, pulling the piece of paper out of the printer quietly. Mike walked back, peering over Richie’s shoulder. “What’s the address?”

“I don’t think it’s gonna matter much anymore.”

 

~*~

 

_ “The farther backward you can look, the farther forward you will see.” -Winston Churchill _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys! So I started a new project (I know, I need to finish stories before I start more, but I just have so many ideas... anyway) it will probably take a long time to get finished, but once I have it done, I'm posting it all at once. I don't wanna spoil the surprise and ruin it, but it's gonna be really cool and you'll understand when you see it. I promise. Anyways, enjoy!


	4. The Footpath Killer

 

The prison was loud, and the sound of clinking metal machines filled the air, making Bill grimace as he walked in. Stan followed loosely behind, observing everything with a steely gaze. They were being led by one of the guards, and all three of them stopped on the balcony overlooking the free area below. There were workout machines, and steps that led up and down to the balconies, located on either side of the room. Dozens of men in orange filled the room, and none of them paid much attention to the FBI agents that had entered. 

“Tim Vogel was the security guard that ran Slessman’s block. That’s him, over there.” The guard said, pointing. “I’ll go get him for you.” At Bill’s nod, the guard jogged down the steps, and Stan walked forward to take his place at the balcony. He gave a soft, “Mhm,” into the phone he held to his ear, and then took it away and ended the call. 

“That was Mike.” Stan said to Bill, leaning with his back against the balcony gate and facing Bill. Bill glanced at him, waiting, so Stan continued. “Linder’s name came up on a police report. There was a car accident, roughly two months ago. He’s dead, Bill.” There was a brief pause, and Bill frowned. Down below, the security guard gestured, and Bill and Stan went down the steps. Stan followed behind Bill, nervousness increasing as the guys around them eyed them, some of them looking unbothered while some others scowled at them. 

“Tim Vogel,” the security guard introduced, and Bill shook hands with the man standing next to them. He was about Stan’s height, but not in the same scrawny, panther-like way. He was more muscular, and Stan urged himself to stay still instead of taking a tiny step back like he wanted to. Something about this place was putting him off, and to stop himself from saying anything about it to Bill, he shoved his hands in his pockets and clenched his fists. If the older boy noticed, he didn’t say anything.

“Sorry you guys came here for nothing,” Vogel murmured, turning to lead them back to where Slessman’s cell had been. He kept talking, pulling out his keys, and reluctantly Stan followed him. Bill’s expression was emotionless, blue eyes hiding anything that he was feeling. “He was truly scum- I mean, I can’t even remember how many times I had to put Linder in solitary. “You would think they would try to stay on our good side, but no.” He twisted his keys into one of the locks, and opened the door, stepping through. Bill and Stan followed, the door shutting with a soft click behind them. “Especially since half our job is protecting them from one another.” 

“You p-p-protect them?” Bill said, gaze dropping down to Vogel’s hands, before snapping back up to his face. Vogel slowed as they approached another door, turning to face Bill with a nod.

“If you’re a little white guy, in a prison like this?” Vogel turned towards the door again, and Bill spoke up, voice quiet. There was a slight challenge in it though, and Stan tensed just slightly, not entirely sure what was going on here.

“Linder was 6’4”.” Bill said, raising his eyebrows. “You t-talking about Slessman?” As if sensing Stan’s unease, Bill moved his foot back just slightly, without taking his gaze away from Vogel. He tapped his shoe lightly against Stan’s, like reassurance. It was the most he could do without breaking the quiet challenge, but Stan appreciated it, and allowed himself to relax just slightly. 

“Yeah,” Vogel said quietly, and with another blink he broke the stare, turning away and opening the next door.

 

~*~

 

“He protected Slessman, m-muh-made him feel like he owed h-him.” Bill said as he and Stan walked fast to their car. The dark night had a chilly feel about it, and when Stan exhaled, he could see his breath in front of him. 

“He fits the profile,” Stan agreed, and thought back to the uneasy feeling he had had while standing next to Vogel. Then, his memory flashed to Vogel’s hand, what he had been holding. “And did you see them?”

Bill nodded, voice tense. “The keys.”

Dangling from the keychain had been a glittery metal Z.

 

~*~

 

The orange car pulled out of the parking lot, and Stan waited a moment before pulling out after it. In the car, Bill was already on the phone with Mike, gaze alert as he watched the orange sports car ahead of them. “Mike, I f-f-found your leverage,” he said into the phone. “His name i-is Timothy Vogel.”

 

~*~

  
  


Mike hung up the phone and walked over to the thermostat, spinning the dial down until the room behind the one-way glass would be just cold enough to get Slessman’s blood pumping. Behind him, he could hear Richie explaining it to one of the officers.

“The cold puts them on edge,” Richie’s soft voice said, and Mike turned, gaze going to the officer.

“I need some more officers in here. We need him to see that we’ve got everyone working on this.” His voice was firm, not taking no for an answer. “And I need some file boxes, please.” He walked smoothly towards the door to Slessman’s room, and kept talking. “Fill the boxes up, I don’t care if the paper’s blank. And write the name Timothy Vogel on the sides.” Mike paused, looking out the glass at Slessman. The boy sat there, fingers tapping on the metal table in front of him boredly.

Minutes later, three file boxes were filled, the name Timothy Vogel written in bold black sharpie on the sides. With a pleased look, Mike gestured for the officers carrying the boxes to follow him, and opened the door into the room.

“Three file boxes. Not one of them is yours.” He said to Slessman. As he spoke, the officers set each box down on the table, soft thuds resulting from the weight. He pushed one across the table, and Slessman reacted fast, hands reaching out to stop it. Slowly, he pulled his fingers away from blocking the name, and his face dropped. “See, we don’t care about you.” Mike said, pulling out the chair and sitting down across from Slessman. “It’s Vogel we want.” 

 

~*~

 

“I got it!” Richie said, bursting through the attic door. Bev jumped, whirling around to face Richie. 

“Aren’t you supposed to be with Mike?” She raised her eyebrows, and Richie grinned at her. “Why did you drive all the way here instead of just calling?”

“You know I have a flair for the dramatic, Bevvie. But seriously, I got it. I know the computer password. Or, I will.” He sat down at the desk, and Bev made an uncertain noise.

“You only got one more shot, kid. Be careful please.”

“It’s the CDs.” Richie said simply, and Bev sighed, shaking her head. 

“We already tried those, Rich. We went through every single one of them, and it’s none of the most used. If we don’t get it, this girl is dead.” The stress was evident in her tone, and Richie gave a charming smile, pushing his thick glasses up on his nose.

“You doubt me, beautiful? I never would have thought.” He crouched down next to the laptop and pulled on a twisted up paperclip, slowing inserting it into the side of the computer. With a small click, the CD inside slowly slid out, ejected. Triumphantly, Richie helped up the CD. 

“Metallica,” Bev murmured, and a grin split her face. “Richie, you’re a genius.”

“I know, doll.” He said, sitting back.

“So what song speaks to him, then? When he’s trying to go to sleep, he listens to Metallica. So what song…” Her voice trailed off slowly, and Richie hummed in thought for a second before looking up at her.

“Enter Sandman.”

 

~*~

 

“We found out Heather was buying a used car,” Mike spoke in a soft tone, walking slow circles around Slessman. “You know how a car salesman gets us to buy a car? It’s called reciprocity.” Slessman watched him, but no interest showed in his gaze. Mike didn’t let it bother him, confident that he would get to him soon enough. “They drop the price, and we feel like they’ve done us a favor- like we’re obligated. And we feel pressured to return this favor. So pressured that we put in a loan for a car that we’re not even sure we really want.”

“So what?” Slessman said in a bored tone, and Mike turned, leaning against the wall and crossing his arms over his chest.

“So Vogel did you a favor. He protected you in prison, and now you feel like you owe him. Like you have to protect him. Kids like Vogel figure out in the schoolyard which kids they need to bully and which kids they need to protect. He’s got you convinced that you owe him so much that you’ll go back to jail for him.” Mike pushed off the wall and walked over to Slessman, allowing his expression to become softer, gentle. “Richard, I wanna remind you of something.” He leaned against the table beside Richard, brown eyes searching brown. “You owe him nothing.”

 

~*~

 

“Something’s wrong.” Stan muttered, squinting at the orange car in front of them. “We have to pull him over. I can feel it.”

“Y-You wanna know the word m-muh-most used in your f-file?” Bill asked, not taking his eyes off the car. “Impatient.” Stan’s gaze went to him for a brief second, then back to the road, frowning. “If you w-wanna stop him, g-g-give me a reason.”

Stan mulled it over in his head for a second, and then confidently stated, “His behavior.” Bill glanced at him, raising an eyebrow, and Bill continued. “When we left, he was nervous, unsettled. But now he’s stopping at every stop sign, using his blinker, slowing at yellow lights, stopping at red ones. This isn’t someone who’s rushing to kill and dump a body.”

There was a brief period of silence, and when Stan glanced over, Bill’s gaze was slightly surprised and slightly impressed. Stan bit his lip to stop the slight smile that tried to come over him.

“Okay. D-Do it.” Bill commanded, and immediately Stan switched on the siren and the flashing blue and red lights of the police car. The orange car slowed, pulling to the side of the road, and Stan pulled over right behind it, exhaling softly. Then, both Stan and Bill opened their doors, getting out of the car and holding both of their guns up and towards the driver’s side of the car. 

“FBI, put your hands where we can see them.” Stan said strongly, slowly approaching the vehicle. When nothing moved inside the car, Stan raised his voice. “Put your hands through the window, now!” 

Slowly, two hands rose out the window, and Stan could see that they were trembling just slightly. 

“Now with your left hand, open the door from the outside and step out.” Stan commanded, and slowly one hand reached down, opening the door and pushing it out. Immediately, Stan reached forward, yanking the man inside out and shoving him down to the ground. The man let out a cry, and Stan made a noise of surprise, keeping the man pinned.

“It’s not him,” Stan said, glancing up at Bill. 

“Wh-where is he?” Bill asked the man sharply, and the man answered in a high, frightened tone.

“Who?”

“Vogel!” Bill snapped, and the man sucked in a sharp breath and Stan pressed slightly harder, but not hard enough to cause terrible pain.

“I don’t know! He came up to me in the garage after his shift, asked to borrow my truck!”

“He’s dumping the body,” Stan inhaled sharply, anger and slight panic flashing in his gaze.  _ Shit shit shit. _

“What k-kind of truck?” Bill demanded.

“Dodge! A Dodge Dakota!” The man cried, and Stan got up, releasing him. They both ran back to the police car, and tore out into the road, leaving the man and the orange car behind them. 

A sharp blast of music startled both of them, and Stan jumped in his seat but kept driving fast as Bill reached into his pocket and pulled out his phone. He pressed the accept call button, putting in on speaker immediately. “H-Hello?”

“We know she’s alive,” came Bev’s voice from the phone, voice urgent. 

“What? How?” Stan asked, pressing harder on the gas pedal as they sped towards the house.

“Because we’re watching her on the computer right now.” Richie’s voice answered instead this time, and instead of replying, Bill hung up and dialed Mike without hesitation. 

“Mike, he’s gonna k-k-kill her. I need a loc-cation,” Bill said, fingers thrumming anxiously against the car’s dashboard. The static voice came back from the phone, and mentally Bill cursed the bad connection.

“I don’t have enough time to get it out of him.” Mike said, staring into the room behind the one-way glass. 

“Find something. Mike, o-or she’s dead.” 

 

_ ~*~ _

 

“Bev, can you show me the last 12 images lined up together?” Richie asked, hair falling in front of his face as he leaned forward. He pushed his glasses up on his nose again as Bev tapped keys. Immediately, Richie’s face lit up. “There.”

“What?” Bev frowned, gaze flicking across the 12 black and white images that filled the screen.

“Right there. The light, it’s swaying back and forth. Like it’s moving. Like the earth is tilting.”

“Not the earth, Rich,” Bev said slowly, looking over at him. “The ocean.” 

Within seconds Richie had his phone out, speaking to Mike. “She’s on some sort of boat.” There was a pause, and Richie glanced back at the screen. “I don’t know. But it’s some kind of pier or dock, because it wouldn’t be able to transmit that far into the ocean.” There was another pause, and then Richie snorted. “Yes, I’m sure. But finding the exact location is on you now.”

 

~*~

 

“Just to let you know,” Mike said as he entered the room with Slessman, a pleased look on his face, “Agent Denbrough is talking with Vogel. And Vogel’s nailing you to the wall.” He pulled out the metal chair, sitting down across from Slessman with a relaxed look.

Slessman simply gave a roll of his eyes. “Yeah, whatever.”

“Vogel said that it was your idea to keep the girls on a boat,” Mike murmured, raising his eyebrows at Slessman. “He’s talking, Richard. Reciprocity.” There was silence from the younger man, and Mike leaned forward across the table. “You talk, and we make a deal. Where is she?” 

After another long period of silence, Mike continued, pushing gently. The shaken look in Slessman’s eyes meant that he was gonna give soon- it was just a matter of when. “Where is it, Richard? A dock? A pier?”

In front of him, Slessman took a long breath, fingers trembling just slightly in the cold metal handcuffs. Then, slowly, he answered, voice shaking too. “It’s a shipyard.” He licked his lips, forcing his voice to come out just a little stronger so he didn’t seem as cornered as he really was. “Allied shipyard.”

 

~*~

 

Stan parked the car in the shipyard’s lot as Bill murmured, “Thanks, Mike,” into the phone. Then, they were both out the car, guns out in front of them as they advanced toward the boats slowly. A quiet chiming noise filled the air, and Stan pulled out his phone as they walked, talking softly into it. 

“You need to wait for backup,” came Bev’s voice immediately, urgent and pleading. 

“If we wait, she’s dead,” Stan argued, and Bill advanced in front of him, paying no mind to the conversation happening. 

“If we had just waited in Boston-” Bev tried to remind him, but his voice cut her off, short and simple.

“I can’t. You told me to trust my instincts.” With that, he ended the call, just as screams could be heard from one of the boats ahead. He glanced at Bill, and with a sharp nod they both sprinted towards the boat.

“Stop!” Bill shouted, gun aimed at the man in front of him as he took in the situation. Vogel stood there, anger on his face as he pressed the barrel of a gun into a woman’s temple. Her duct tape blindfold had been pushed up so she could now see, matted brown hair tangled and frizzy. Her clothes were torn and she said a gag in her mouth. She let out a sob, mascara running down her face and cheeks, and Stan felt a pang hit him. 

“Step back, or I’ll shoot her,” Vogel snarled angrily.

“I wouldn’t,” Bill responded calmly. “If I were you, I’d aim the gun at m-muh-me. You kill her, you get n-nothing.” 

“Step. Back!” Vogel shouted at Bill, and the girl sobbed again, weight almost entirely dependant on Vogel keeping her up because she was shaking so hard.

“Come on. What, you a l-l-lousy shot?” Bill taunted. Stan stayed crouched behind some wooden crates, heart racing as he watched Bill. Bill’s face split into a grin, and nervousness erupted throughout Stan, gripping the gun tighter. “I’ll m-muh-make it easy f-for you.” Bill held his hands apart, taking his finger off the trigger of the gun and exposing his chest.

“You think I’m stupid?” Vogel growled at him, and Bill laughed.  _ Oh, god, please don’t. _

“I think you’re an absolute moron,” Bill said quite cheerfully, and Stan’s chest tightened with anxiety.  _ What are you doing, Bill? _ “I know all about you, Tim. You’re at the gym five days a week, you drive a flashy car, you stink of cologne and you can’t get it up.” His words were cruel, mocking, and Stan could see Vogel’s neck and face tighten with rage, anger boiling in his gaze. “Not even Viagra’s working for you.” Bill laughed again. “You know what that tells me?” There was a stretch of silence, and all Stan could do was watch with bated breath.

“It tells me you’re hopelessly compensating, and it’s not just in your head- it’s physical. What did they call you in high school?” Bill asked, tilting his head and watching Vogel with glittering eyes. “When you managed to get into some girl’s pants and she started laughing when she got a good look at just how little you had to offer? Hmm? Short stack? Very Little Vogel?” 

_ “Shut up!”  _ Vogel roared.

“Oh, I got it. Tiny Tim.” With that, Vogel let out another roar of anger, shoving the girl to the ground and firing three shots at Bill. As soon as Vogel moved, Stan shot, and both Vogel and Bill went down.

“Bill!” He shouted as police sirens filled the air, shooting up from where he was sitting and sprinting down the dock to Bill’s side. Before Stan had even reached him, Bill waved him off.

“I-I’m fine, really. G-Go look after the girl.” Reluctantly, Stan followed orders, shooting a last glance at Bill before walking over to the girl to comfort her. The sound of sirens filled the air, and all Stan could think was  _ Thank God. _

 

~*~

 

Bill walked away from the ambulance slowly, tired and weary from the long night but pleased they had gotten him before anyone else had gotten hurt. A bandage was wrapped tightly around his arm, bleeding through where he had been shot, but otherwise he was completely fine. Mike, Bev and Richie watched as he passed, all three quiet. 

“So what kind of report do they want on him?” Bev finally spoke once Bill was out of hearing range, looking away from the taller boy and over at Mike instead. 

“I guess whether or not he should be a field agent. I think the answer is obvious, but…” there was a brief pause, and Mike gave a small little laugh. “You know, Hailey and I were looking through baby names the other day. You know what Bill means?” 

“‘Resolute protector’.” Richie said without thinking about it, and then looked up at Mike. “Appropriate, no?” With that, the young boy stood, following after Bill like a puppy. 

“So what’re you gonna tell them?” Bev asked, meaning the report on Bill. 

“What would you tell them?” Mike countered, shrugging. 

“That Bill saved that girl’s life. I don’t know about you, but that’s good enough for me.”

 

~*~

 

The plane on the way home had a quiet, almost peaceful atmosphere. Bev slept against one of the chairs, head leaning against the plan wall and legs spread out across the aisle. Richie had crashed on the couch, a pillow tight against his chest and held there by his criss-crossed arms. With a soft grunt, Richie rolled over, and Bill glanced at him before flipping to the next page in his book. After a moment, soft footsteps could be heard behind him, and he looked up to see Mike walking down the aisle. He stepped over Bev’s outstretched feet and sat down in the chair across from Bill, giving a soft smile.

“Hey.” The voice was quiet, not wanting to disturb the others, though he doubted that anything could wake them from the sleep they were currently in. It had been an exhausting day. 

“Hey,” Bill answered, giving a smile back. “You and H-Hailey picked the name y-yet?”

Mike gave a soft chuckle, looking down and taking a small drink from his glass of water. “It’s kind of funny. Hailey liked the name Charles, but all I could think was…”

“M-Manson.” Bill finished, nodding slowly.

“Right. And then she liked Richard, but then…”

“Ramirez,” Bill said again, leaning back and watching him.

“And Henry.”

“L-Lee Lucas.” 

“And Jeffrey…”

“Dahmer.”

“There’s just too many of them,” The words were so quiet Bill almost missed them. A sigh escaped from his lips, and he looked up, blue eyes tired.

“It’s hard to f-f-feel good about c-catching one when you kn-n-now 50 more are st-still out there.” There was a moment of silence, and Mike gave a slow nod, before standing up, intending to take the last couch left to crash. Before he could, Bill spoke up again, a small smile on his lips.

“H-How’s the report coming?”

At the words, Mike gave a nervous laugh, scratching at the back of his neck. Bill smiled in amusement.

“You didn’t really th-think you could hide that f-f-from me, did ya?”

Mike smiled solemnly at him, and reached out, resting a hand on his shoulder. “You saved that girl today, Bill. You can feel good about that.” 

 

_ ~*~ _

 

_ “When you look long into an abyss, the abyss looks into you.” -Nietzsche _

 

_ ~*~ _

 

_ Dumfries, Virginia _

 

Bill pulled in to the old rusted gas station, the faded red and blue signs flashing dully at him in the light of day. His nice car looked out of place here, shiny and new amongst the old, dusty things that lay around in the area. It was one of the only gas stations for miles, though, so he pulled in without a complaint, slowing to a stop and shutting off his car. There were only two other cars there, both sitting in the back lot, both probably the owner and worker cars. A red pickup truck sat there, and a blue one, beat up and battered like it had seen several storms in the same position. 

Stepping out of the car, Bill put the gas pump in before heading inside, humming absentmindedly to himself. He figured he could pick up some candy bars on the way to the department, and maybe making the ride easier for himself wouldn’t be too bad, either. As soon as he stepped inside, he coughed just slightly, the smell of cigarette smoke wafting strongly from the store. It was faintly familiar, because the scent always lingered just a little on Richie’s clothes, but here it was overwhelming, stifling.

The ground was nasty, and when Bill walked he could feel something sticking to his shoes, like someone had spilled syrup on the floor. A couple metal shelves stood inside, holding bags of chips and boxes of candy, and the white walls were stained an ugly yellow color. A few dead plants were around the corners of the room, and Bill tried to keep his face neutral as he walked through the dirty shop. He picked out a couple candy bars and set them on the counter, taking in the check out guy as he murmured, “Just this, please.”

The man was tall, just a little shorter than Bill, with scraggly, straight brown hair that looked like it hadn’t been washed in a white. It hung down to almost his shoulders, and he had a beard and a mustache. He seemed timid, quiet, and barely said anything as he checked Bill out, looking down the entire time. When all of the candy was bagged, he finally looked up. “Have a n-n-nice day.” The man said slowly, and Bill blinked.

Slowly, Bill’s gaze flickered back, behind the man. Smiling pictures of the people that had been missing- the victims of the Footpath Killer. His memory flashed to the red pickup truck outside, and the man’s stutter. He must have stopped to think longer than he wanted to, because the man’s gaze flicked down, and Bill knew immediately what his eyes had landed on. The gun in his waistband. 

Slowly, Bill nodded and turned, walking out of the gas station with anticipation. In the mirror outside, he watched as the man followed him outside, the click of a shotgun confirming his fears. 


End file.
